


trying to forget everything that isn't you

by brophigenia



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bilingual Character(s), Blood, Blowjobs, Break Up, Canon-Typical Violence, Dirty Talk, Hair Washing, Joseph Kavinsky Lives, Joseph Kavinsky is His Own Warning, Language Kink, M/M, Make Up, Murderous Fantasies, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, but it's all good, handjobs, no really, non-dream prokopenko, rough rough sex, secretly being SOFT to your hard boyfriend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 08:15:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16082123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: The first time they met, K had staked his claim with a hand curled around the back of Proko’s neck, palm pressed hotly to nape, proprietary and easy, like Proko had passed a test he didn’t even know he was taking.(AKA, Proko is K's translator, with sexy results.)





	trying to forget everything that isn't you

**Author's Note:**

> This is all @glitterghost's fault.

The first time they met, K had staked his claim with a hand curled around the back of Proko’s neck, palm pressed hotly to nape, proprietary and easy, like Proko had passed a test he didn’t even know he was taking. 

They’d been fourteen then, and Proko had burned with the power he felt being escorted through the halls in this way, eyed up by freshman and senior alike. They’d sized him up and found him terrible, the same way they found Joseph Kavinsky terrible— tall and great and frightening because he was the walking embodiment of all of their dark sides. 

(Every boy who grew up with money is capable of great violence and yawning complacency; every boy who has never known the fear of breaking something their bank account couldn’t replace grows up into a monster wearing a person suit. Only, some monsters forget they’re wearing one. K never even tried one on for size.) 

He’d staked his claim in other ways, of course— sloppily jerking him off until he came all over the Headmaster’s door, snickering and biting at the shell of his ear viciously while he did. Making him steal a pack of M&Ms and a bottle of vodka from the corner store down the road. Calling him  _ bitch  _ instead of  _ Proko  _ until the first time he cut his knuckles fighting for K’s honor, a pliant dog gone rabid. 

Mostly it had all been to lazily prove to Proko and everyone else around that K owned him, and always would, and that Proko adored that ownership, even if it stripped him of a shred of his dignity and an ounce of his freedom. 

_ Proko,  _ K would say vaguely in the old days,  _ go find me something to eat.  _ And then he’d make dismissive noises at any further questioning of  _ where  _ and  _ what  _ and even  _ who?  _ and it would be up to Proko to decide, to find the best thing on offer in a hundred mile radius and get it back to K before it stopped being hot and fresh. 

And: 

_ Wash my fucking hair,  _ K would whine, and then it would be up to Proko to figure out the best way to do it so K would be  _ comfortable,  _ and he’d end up padding down the bureau next to the bathroom sink with towels and laying K upon it so he could place the back of his skull delicately on the porcelain rim of the bowl. It was maybe his favorite thing to do for K, back then— there was something intensely erotic about knuckling at K’s scalp, feeling out the shape and size of his cranium, knowing if he chose he could pick K’s head up and bash it against the sink a few times and that would be that, blood washed down the drain with the suds. 

Finally: 

_ Translate,  _ he’d say, and snap his fingers impatiently whenever one of his tenuous business deals with the fellow Slavs at Aglionby required a knowledge of the mothertongue. 

It had rankled Proko at first, more than anything else K did. Had got him in all the  _ wrong  _ places, until one day he was snapping, dragging K behind the science building one day after a  _ negotiation  _ where he’d felt like a wooden puppet controlled by the worst sort of tyrant— that is, a lazy and sanctimonious one. 

K had gone easy, mostly willing, eyes dancing and mouth curled like he was just  _ dying  _ to know what Proko would do. 

What Proko did was  _ slap  _ him, and then fling him up against the bricks. K was still and quiet against the wall, cowed but for the glittering menace always burning in his eyes. His nose was bloodied, and his lips were swollen, wet with the blood. 

_ God  _ the sight of him made Proko’s hair stand on end, gave him goosebumps. Made him hard, and even more terribly furious. “Fucking cocksucker,” he swore, more by rote than any real thought. He swore it in Russian, because that was the entire  _ point  _ of this beating. He kept on swearing, too— spitting out the worst filth he could, punching the stuffing out of K, getting him on the ground. He stomped his boot down onto K’s fine-boned face all of once before he finally restrained himself, drew himself up to his fullest height and glared down his nose at the boy he’d chosen for his king. 

He’d felt like  _ murder,  _ like something once peaceable turned to war, a rose garden doused in gasoline and lit on fucking  _ fire.  _ Finished, ruined,  _ risen.  _ A new thing entirely, separate from what he’d been. 

And K had  _ laughed,  _ goading and mean and  _ joyous,  _ because there was nothing that Joseph Kavinsky loved more than breaking something, knowing it couldn’t be fixed. 

“Get your fucking cock out,” he laughed, taunting, not  _ with  _ Proko but  _ at  _ him, and Proko had done it because how could he refuse? Who could refuse, with the sight of Joseph Kavinsky smeared in blood and smudged with bruises at their feet?  _ Asking  _ for it? 

He stood and stripped his cock with a rough grip, one hand braced against the brick, K below him  _ preening,  _ laughing, teeth white as bone next to his red  _ red  _ blood. 

Proko came with an exhaled, harsh slur that was halfway between  _ oh my love  _ and  _ you fucking demon,  _ but it didn’t matter because K couldn’t understand, K obstinately  _ didn’t  _ understand the language that had been written on his fucking  _ bones,  _ as Slavic as they came with his dark eyes and ugly nose and pouty mouth, and Proko ejaculated in stripes as neat as lines of cocaine all over K and his blood and his Aglionby uniform. 

Staking some kind of claim. 

It set the tone for their future  _ encounters.  _ Weeks after, all Proko wanted to do was fit his fingertips to the awful, blue-black bruises on K’s jaw that matched the treads on his favorite pair of boots. To press hard on the places on K’s ribs that he knew intimately would be spattered yellow-purple-green. 

_ Fuck,  _ it was awful. It was fucking awful, and every day he woke up he looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize his own reflection. 

He stopped taking his meds. 

He stopped taking his parents’ calls. 

There was nothing else but K, and K, and  _ K,  _ nothing else but the bruises K had  _ let him _ put on all of that smooth sallow-toned skin, but K’s hand on the back of his neck and K’s voice saying  _ translate,  _ a fucking tease who  _ knew  _ what he was fucking doing. 

And every time Proko dragged him off afterward to spit out the worst words he knew in the language K disdained to learn for himself, K  _ let him.  _ K went on his knees and opened his grinning mouth and let Proko gag him on his cock while he dug his fingernails into K’s scalp so hard they were flaked red underneath for days. K braced himself on the nearest sturdy piece of furniture and opened his legs and his back shook with his laughter as he let Proko fuck him with nothing but spit and malice. K held still and breathed obnoxiously through his mouth while Proko ruined yet  _ another  _ pair of his expensive uniform trousers by coming all over them where they hung open to expose K’s own come-covered cock, jerked fucking  _ raw  _ and painful just to look at. 

The years passed like that, except one late night Proko was sleep deprived and going through the motions of his old fury, mustering up the sexualized violence K expected through his haze of exhaustion and there was just nothing left in him to call K a  _ rabid cockhungry whore _ . 

“Sweetheart,” he snarled instead, putting on the right tone even if the word was wrong. “Fucking gorgeous like this, and all mine, and I  _ love you—“  _ he wrapped his hand around K’s throat and smeared their mouths together, said it again while he snapped his hips up  _ hard,  _ cockhead catching K’s prostate with every thrust. “I  _ love you.”  _

K threw his head back and came with a  _ roar,  _ wild with his pleasure. It was a sight that rendered Proko fucking  _ speechless,  _ helpless,  _ undone.  _

(It always did.) 

After that there was no looking back— like everything else he’d fallen into with K, Proko didn’t have the willpower needed to stop. He didn’t even have  _ half  _ the willpower needed to stop, and so he didn’t even have to try and make any decisions about actually  _ stopping.  _

Life was easier when you knew there was no other options. 

_ Pretty pretty thing,  _ he’d growl while beating K’s lily-white ass black and green,  _ my darling, my darling, my darling.  _

_ There’s a lovely boy,  _ he’d croon like a taunting insult when he fitted his spit-slick fingers into K’s ass, biting a row of perfectly-spaced hickeys on the underside of K’s knife-sharp jawline. 

_ You’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, you’re so fucking beautiful,  _ he’d snap while backhanding K even as he had his cock in K’s mouth, the fingers of his free hand hooked behind K’s teeth so he wouldn’t bite down. 

And so it went on and fucking  _ on,  _ and it was Proko’s secret— it was fucking  _ fine,  _ even if his stomach churned with hiding it, with keeping  _ anything  _ from K, even something as embarrassing as this. 

And then one day K’s eyes swept over the crowd of  _ Not Pack  _ Aglionby motherfuckers and  _ caught  _ on Ronan fucking  _ Lynch.  _

Ronan  _ fucking  _ Lynch, Dick Gansey’s pet psychopath. 

_ Ronan  _ fucking  _ Lynch,  _ who Proko wished fervently every single night would die in a terrible and fiery car crash that he could fuck K right beside of, both of them inhaling the scent of cooked flesh and burning gasoline. 

_ Ronan  _ fucking Lynch, not even the hot older one, someone who Proko could  _ maybe  _ understand K wanting to fuck crosseyed and cut up a bit. 

_ (Maybe,  _ but probably not.) 

Proko felt like he was  _ choking _ on his jealousy, like he’d swallowed the pendant of a necklace and the chain still dangled out of his mouth, links dragging and scraping his esophagus with every hateful, envy-tinged breath. 

_ It was never gonna be you and me,  _ Lynch said to K all high and  _ haughty  _ like him saying it was the only thing keeping it from  _ happening,  _ like he had any fucking  _ right,  _ and Proko fucked K that night, positively  _ saturated _ in vodka and nose rubbed raw from all the lines he’d done, coke and crushed pills and who knew what-the-fuck-else. 

“I  _ hate  _ you,” he snarled at K in Russian, fingers digging brutally into his delicately-curved, bony knees as he wrenched them even further apart, trying to get as far  _ in  _ as possible. Trying to find a spot deep enough inside K that he could hurt him there and K wouldn’t ever recover, would always feel the sting of pain and always know what he’d fucking done, what he’d  _ made  _ when he’d singled Proko out of the crowd and brought him into the fold. “I hate you, I hate you,  _ I hate you.”  _

With every thrust K got stiller and quieter, eyes dark and  _ wet,  _ but his hands were still insistent, pulling Proko in closer and closer. He did not say  _ no.  _ He didn’t even  _ mouth  _ it, or shake his head. 

He came silently, shuddering, and Proko ripped himself away, jerked off onto the leather of the Mitsu’s backseat and tumbled out into the night air before he’d even done his jeans back up. Disgusted with himself, and horrified by his own traitorous heart, stuttering and broken in his chest. 

Breaking up with Joseph Kavinsky, as it turned out, was no easy feat. 

He snapped his phone in half on the second night, when he couldn’t fucking take any more of its incessant buzzing but also couldn’t make himself block K’s number. 

On the seventh night he swallowed half a bottle of Ativan and woke up to Jiang scraping him up off the floor where he’d passed out in a puddle of his own vomit. 

On the eleventh night he got on his knees behind the library and sucked off Declan Lynch, who kept his eyes closed and stuffed his fingers into Proko’s mouth alongside his cock, restlessly curling against the inside of his cheek and splitting the sides of his lips. 

On the fourteenth night he was slouched in a booth at Hardee’s between Swan and Skov when K rolled in the door wearing an unfamiliar pair of black Ray-Bans, far and away from his white Diesels that were crushed to bits in the party field. K ordered hash rounds and gravy and a supersized Cherry Coke; it was his preferred meal for when he had to come down off the drugs long enough to pass some exam or another, and Proko wondered at it even as he tried to keep his gaze firmly on the screen of Skov’s stolen phone, swiping restlessly through a game of  _ Bejeweled 3.  _

When he glanced up through his eyelashes K was looking back at him with an unhappy twist to his mouth. Proko set his jaw tight and saw again K with his palms open, looking at Lynch like he would  _ beg  _ for him. 

Like he could read this on Proko’s face, K snatched up his Cherry Coke from the counter and left without his food, ignoring the townie cashier woman’s thickly accented voice calling after him. 

On the fifteenth morning he woke up to K pounding on the door of his dorm room; he knew it was K even before he opened it, because no one else would risk the wrath of their dorm matron, the ancient Madame Du Jardins, who had reportedly been the French mistress of Harold Aglionby, the academy’s founder. 

“Let me in,” K said quietly, broken-voiced, in complete contrast to the violent rattling his banging knocks caused Proko’s door to produce. 

It was this more than anything else that convinced Proko; he opened the door and moved enough to the side that K could come in without brushing up against him. 

K brushed up against him anyway, because he may have his tail tucked between his legs and he may look like the seventh circle of hell but he was still not above using every single advantage at his disposal. 

Proko was weak for his touch; he’d been weak for it since he was fourteen and rawboned, a boy full of violence masquerading as a man in control of that violence. 

He was eighteen now, broader and more solemn than he’d been; still, he felt out of control in the face of everything that was Joseph Kavinsky, and standing on the cusp of their senior year he could practically taste the salt of the sand slipping through their shared hourglass, could practically hear their clock ticking down. 

They were expiring right before his eyes, and Proko couldn’t fucking  _ stand it  _ anymore. 

If this was all he was going to get, he was going to take everything there was to  _ take.  _

_ Everything,  _ which meant  _ this,  _ K spread out in his bed, ludicrously lush with a little meat on his bones, a little fat at the bottom of his belly for Proko to set his teeth into while he pressed his fingers  _ in,  _ making a place for himself. Carving out a space in K’s body just for him.  _ Only  _ for him, or at least he could pretend. 

“I can’t fucking believe you,” he told K desperately, not even pretending at a hostile tone this time. “I can’t fucking  _ stand this.  _ I can’t take you looking at fucking  _ Lynch  _ when you should be looking at  _ me,  _ I want to rip your fucking eyes out of your skull and make you  _ stop it—“  _ he shouldered K’s thighs wider apart and pressed  _ in,  _ fucked his hips forward and  _ up,  _ made K moan so loud that he had to put his fingers in that gaping-open mouth to muffle the sound. It was important that K  _ listened  _ to what he had to say, even if he couldn’t  _ understand.  _ “You are  _ mine,  _ I won’t fucking let you leave me behind, you won’t, I’d rather see you dead in a fucking  _ ditch  _ than see you  _ gone,  _ I want— K, I  _ want—“  _

“Yes yes yes,” K chanted, mindless, clawing at the sheets and Proko’s back and his own chest, garbled around Proko’s fingers.  _ “Yes,  _ Proko,  _ yes.”  _

“I want you to _stay_ with me, I want us to fucking leave this shithole _together,_ I want to burn the goddamn _world_ down with _you,_ no one else— _nobody_ _else,_ K, I fucking _mean it—“_ and he was losing it, fucking in harder and faster, so fucking _close._ K nodded vigorously, hair sweat-soaked and flopping and _stupid,_ so fucking _stupid_ but Proko _loved him_ so fucking much. 

“K, I  _ love you—“  _ he said, blind with it, and K— 

K said, he said “I love you, too,” in fucking  _ Russian,  _ he said it in  _ Russian  _ just as easily as he could say  _ fuck you  _ in English, like he’d always known it, like he— 

Like he’d been speaking it  _ forever,  _ because he  _ had,  _ and of course— of fucking  _ course—  _

_ “Fuck!”  _ Proko shouted, and came, shuddering, thinking of every adoring word he’d pressed hotly to K’s skin when he thought he’d never be found out. When he thought nobody was  _ listening,  _ and K had  _ heard him  _ every single time. 

K clutched him close, greedy, arms and legs around Proko and his mouth at Proko’s ear, murmuring terrible and soft things in the language Proko had learned at his mother’s knee, hot-breathed and  _ sweet.  _

“Mine,” K said, and Proko closed his sweat-stinging eyes, pressed into K’s throat, nosing against the gold chain K always wore. 

_ “Mine,”  _ he agreed, and breathed. 

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com


End file.
